ORDER OF POEMS IN

"C(5he Song of the UndertoW"

PART I

, lJREWORD

"II3LUDE

III SONG OF THE UNDERTOW

PART II

TIMES SQUARE

AVE DWELLERS

IlALD MOUNTAIN

THE COSMIC LIDRARIAN

THE WOE-BORN BEAUTY

TAR SANDALS

THE PLAINS OF ABRAHAM

THE LESBIAN GIVES A ROSE

MANHATTAN

THE SONG OF THE NEW JESUS

LIGHT THOU MY TORCH

MY COUNTRY

FIRE-PLACE

THE LIVING WORD

PAGE

7

11

13

147150153155157160161163164166168170171174

'fJoreword

lIS is more than a poem; it is a confessional of

faith. From the first word to the last phrase,

; v for a word here and there and a transversion of

w rds in conversation, for the sake of rhyme and

I hythm, this narrative-poem is true. That I waslivinely guided in three great crises, that confronted

II) in that first vagrant journey of my life, baffles

any skepticism which Fate, with its multitudinous'ontradictions, has since forced upon me.

You may say that it was co-incidence that I met

I v. James T. Houssemayne du Boulay, Mr. and

Mrs. S. R. Button, Mrs. Berryman and J. Philip

llins, who one and all received me in such Christ­

tik spirit. You may be right. There may be no

ivinity Who shapes our ends. But I would be a

p r gambler if I doubted the evidence given to my

own soul in the year 1902.

7

If this confessional of faith had been publishedsix years ago the critics would have received my evi,dence with contempt. Many will yet do so because

the fad for unbelief is still strong in commercial andacademic circles. But it is surely and slowly dying.The pendulum moves strangely. To one generation

a man is not a true philosopher unless he has faith.to another he is not a real thinker if he is a believer.One attitude is as nonsensical as the other.

One New York writer advised me, in a paternalway, to avoid the word "God". If I were agnosticto the heart I would not avoid this word. I woulduse it for the poetic beauty that clings to it. I woulduse it for the majesty which its utterance brings. Iwould chant it because the very fibre of its sound is

strength to the soul.

The radical of to,day is often more narrow and

bigoted than was ever the worst fundamentalist.Many liberals have become fundamentalists in theirradicalism. If a writer uses the word "God" they

immediately force some church's conception of God

8

upon that scribe. I may use the word "God" to

d cribe a glorious vision of my own soul which isutterly at variance with any deity of a church or a

nation, or of any other individual on earth, and Ihall use this majestic word, despite the skeptic's

sneer, until my pen lies down beside its finished task.

W.M.

9

eprelude

O F learning's musty soul may these,My lines, have not a trace.

For when pale art shall languish hereRed life will take its place;

Any every line will grow divineFrom some gaunt human face.

To gain these songs I've bared my breastTo many a wind and rain;

I've walked a wilderness of gravesWherein my loves lie slain;

I've pierced the core of black and cold,And drunk the heart of pain.

My arms have felt the undertowGrip like a serpent's coil.

My back is marked with many a blowFrom stinging whips of toil;

And every word I write will showThe smear of grime and soil.

11

'The Song of theUndertow

Being a true chronicle, with prelude and aftermath, of eventsthat happened during a sea voyage taken by the author on ahorse-boat (the name of which, for evident reasons, I will notdivulge) in July of the year of our Lord, nineteen hundred and two.

1.

A friendly place is MontrealWithin its charmed retreats.

But Montreal has a ghastly lookTo men upon her streets--

To men who march on mocking stone;The soldiers of defeats.

I marched with these defeated menIn nineteen,hundred,two.

From Champ de Mars to Sherbrooke StreetI wore the pavement through.

And all I drank was loneliness;And all I ate was rue.

And folk I knew and things I lovedSeemed like pale ghosts afar.

And then I read, on Place Viger,The "want ads" in the "Star".

And I worked that night on Notre DameIn an evil'smelling bar,

13

lhe.f>roprieroroHhe bar"lold me~tI Ic.aa c.leaned Me SaIODf!xloor better­iizarl: anyone Raa evercleaheo ii. I vse(la. tf1. lxe<bto '6crapethe Q'rime.&rom olC1ce5um.\cw. my f?re3~ye5soM:; haCf6ver-lbolfeaal(.d~e 'ORcovel"'lrz.croC.the cein was1"he'resu II. 'u C)

whether wdt'"T7.9: i?Oetr.Y~r-lhe lDriJD!"lmercury or scruDb~-~~1ti oars o~cb~he~p ~a\ooT7. I have Ive \fer m 1:\

eSt 'e~or1iothetask.

I scrubbed the fevered bar'room floor:I cleaned each, foul spittoon.

I washed the midnight from the rails,And made them shine like noon;

< r the soul is dead that hungers bread,And any hell's a boon.

Yea, there are times when Hell is sweetIf it can give us bread;

And so, across the mottled floor,My weary fingers sped;

But all I hated lived that night,And all I loved lay dead.

I thought of one of wistful faceWhose eyes peered up through time;

And scent of myrrh and flow of laceCame to me like a rhyme.

And, through my hour of shame, one nameBurned in my heart like lime.

2.In all the years no lad had groomed

So well this mildewed floor;And under dirt in wax entombed

I found a coin that boreThe head of England's latest queen

And that gold crown she wore.

15

As wind, that rubs a cloudy moon,This silver orb I shone.

r made it glow until the gleamWas good to look upon;

And then I found the metal soundNor any value gone.

That night I prayed: "How long, 0 Lord,Must I lie prone in dust?

My soul for beauty hath implored,And 10, these haunts of lust:

In this foul place shall I not growCorrupt of moth and rust?"

The answer came in words of flameThat burned in a living scroll:

"Though Truth shall tread the hall of shameHer coffers pay no toll.

Behold on this thy monarch's name:Wear Mine upon your soul.

"I wash my stars in gloomy cloudsThat they may brighter glow.

In twilight pools my weavers dreamPale tapestries of snow-

Pale curtains that at dawn will hangWhere mountain breezes blow."

17

3.I roken with toil that hideous night

I slept on a sullen bed;1\1 d if I dreamed in my strange sleep

It was a dream of bread;( if I dreamed that night of God

I dreamed that He was dead.

m. ck are those days that yawn betweenThe Cross and Open Tomb;

For every soul who mounts to Christleepeth three days of doom;

And in this winter lies the seedf joy's eternal bloom.

4.N tre Dame is a narrow street

Where petty commerce plays;And there are haunts on Notre Dame

That match its narrow ways;And in these haunts 'tis often hard

To find a man who prays.

1n Nineteen-two the street was loudWith bacchanalian cries;

;or here came men of every raceThat roam beneath the skies-reat men with hair like yellow dawn,And men with midnight eyes.

19

Some drank to make remembrance clear;And some drank to forget;

And some confessed, as to a priest,Before each man they met;

For a bar is a strange confessionalIn a priestless abbey set.

5.I rose at dawn and once again

I scrubbed that bar-room floor.If it could be I think the planks

Were fouler than before;Or they but fouler seemed because

Light billowed through the door.

But what is golden light to menIn haunts of Notre Dame!

They only know the jaundiced glowOf yellow miles of flame;

And all their windows hide the lightLest it reveal their shame.

From water, mop and brush I roseAnd made the tankards white;

With foaming ale I offered bailFrom trouble's long despite;

With brown, Barbadoes rum I gaveA lethe-born delight.

21

This lovelY. June mor-Rirc.awasno1ous \.ljff~ sURshiRe. ";)

I was a barman for an hour,And might have made it two,

Had not an open door revealedThe fenceless fields of blue;

And through that tavern's door I fledTo hills of burning dew.

6.In twenty minutes one may stroll

From granite ~otre l)ameTo mountain roads that take at dawn

The sun's first holy flame.And on these roads I drank of light

That from God's wine-press came.

And there, on galleons of the wind,I shipped my bales of care;

And put a cargo on my soulWhich you, in song, now share:

The dancing silver of Lachine,The blue of Saint Hilaire.

In one high moment love was bornFor that great town below.

Her domes were beautiful with light,And shone like burning snow;

And splendid seas of billowing greenRolled over her haunts of woe.

23

The noon bells rang and I could feelMy pockets clean and bare.

It seemed an age of time to meSince silver had been there.

But who had need of script or goldUpon God's altar'stair?

I never bought a thing with goldThat made my pulses leap.

I never bought with gold a thingThat made me laugh or weep.

With yellow gold you cannot buyWhat any man may keep.

7.The sap of life, to gain her leaf,

Must pass. through many gnarls;And that same summer's afternoon

I peddled in St. Charles;And took a hawker's slamming doors,

And all his jeers and snarls.

I made enough, twixt one and six,To buy three meals or more.

But every time I rang the bell,On some reluctant door,

An acid ate into my heartAnd burned it to the core.

25

One year before my clothes were madeTo fashion's last decree;

One year before I loved a girlWho gave her love to me.

And I was glad she was not hereHer peddlar-friend to see.

But He who knows a poet's path,Ere the strong muse is won,

Must pass through caverns, cold with shade,And vales bereft of sun,

Looked on a barman for an hourAnd saw these lines begun.

8.At ten o'clock a stout man toyed

With a dangling yellow chain,As he signed up men to go to sea

With horses, hay and grain.But none who ever signed his scroll

Will sign such script again.

I came to him as timidlyAs a man about to wed.

The nineteenth man was I in line,With eighteen tramps ahead.

And when the stout man scrawled my nameMy heart was pumping lead.

27

1he~pcrters ok1he- h.orsee. orthe5le<:l.tn:5\-li1p~cmp~~y supplieo no4'cCIal.ln~g our, ,currie" I'vtr~\r2Xrpmmon:T-?-ea\1'b '3tJ'6n.~. DJe~~h.oh:a.drto money, l1aCl 0. \0I1Q'I~oodle5sridellt"Shet'broo\\e we w'ef'lb oraere'alo

\eayelhe cabo®e ~rza r.iae ol11he1"rnll1:'5 roo,(o. :l. n<::\d nelthervesl \torClvercoatxBt-I had paum.e-a a \mosteventth,i-f~I p05se&sea an.d "R my'Wealtenea~el\eI tUoulJ Rqlfe~\~e'h

1>.romihetra\rt bvtkrthe<Olu oC"l'Yl.axBi\\ mCCord. 1h~C\me "me ra"IIChve <oupp\iea xor I 00 noi remem.be.r"is o-therRe\rrl'e.. -ro me. he U)asa.\U)a~s131 \I aRd he Rao o.sXil1e a soul a.sanKilLQ" qrseerorvelpc%CfGd iRihe worl .11\S:~rSt worasTome orzThai k1e~ul

",;ol.{a were:'" You'll neeo axf1!en<¥-a'¥no :pthese rOIJ~hn.ec.\(""af{Cl Iam.gCIl'v;Y1o be.th-atxneRa. rlil\e:d~o\.lIQathe,+T~meRtIsd"u>vou;' Rn.-al't3iIl' I~eF' 1115 \.Uora. oj

His pen caught up the twenty trampsWithout a smile or sigh;

But as he wrote my name I sawThe human in his eye.

"You're different lad," was all he saidWhen I went slowly by.

I saw my contract had me doomedTo twelve long days at sea-

A groom of horses, and ,my payA vagabond's poor fee.

But anywhere save MontrealSeemed paradise to me.

9.From Point St. Charles on an afternoon

Our horse-train pulled away.And in a red caboose a score

Of sprawling hostlers lay. . .And some had food, to ease theIr nde;

And some had none that day.

At Sherbrooke came a cold commandTo ride the roofs 'till morn.

And we climbed up and watched the moonBlowing her silver horn.

But like these bucking cars we rodeWas never broncho born.

29

.A if to mock our piteous plight,The night grew loud with rain.

And we had fingers red with blood,That stained our plunging train.t all the night, like cavalry'menWe rode the woods of Maine.

We moved between two dark'gowned choirsf softly crooning cones.

And where the banks were high we heardThe hollow cry of stones.

And all the while great raindrops playedA tattoo on my bones.

The engine leaped, the engine veeredBehind her tongue of light.

And each car echoed back her cryAcross the startled night.

And dripping trees rolled down the breezeIn sympathetic flight.

An aching smote my tongue and throat,And knives were in my back.

My hands grew numb; and when the trainWould plunge upon her track

My body felt as if I layUpon a martyr's rack.

31

And then a daring star flew out,Like a stone from David's sling,

And put those giant clouds to rout,And all my woes awing;

And that Goliath of the stormLay, a defeated thing.

10.Those hours are graved upon my soul

With Time's unfading stamp;The rolling trees, the smoky breeze

And the brakeman with his lamp,And mile by mile, the homely smile

Of Bill McCord, the tramp.

Bill sat between me and the wind,And kept me from the cold;

P r he who loves can understand,Nor needs he to be told.

And Bill knew I was frail of flesh;And I knew Bill was gold.

The horses, on that doleful ride,In stalls were snug and warm;

And they were fed; while overhead,ut in that blinding storm,

In rags arrayed, were men God madeAfter His own fair form.

33

W , sniveling mortals, weep great tearsAt sight of a starving bitch;

But we never throw a swilling sowIn a prison black as pitch;

17 r dogs may sell for fifty pounds,And hogs in lard are rich.

11.Maine is a land of lonely miles;

But in her savage hillsThere is a cure the townsmen find

For all their griefs and ills;The anodyne of spruce and pine

And the songs of whip-poor-wills.

At Jackman-of-the-singing-IakesWe broke our foodless ride

On berries lovely as a giftOf a bridegroom to his bride.

They hung like a rich tapestryAgainst a warm hillside.

And I knew well that Bridegroom's name:It was heard in Galilee;

And it is cool in a sailor's earsWhen there are storms at sea;

And in the fragrant woods of Iv1aineIts sound was sweet to me.

35'

I ate my meal like a sacrament:And the place shall ever stand

To tell that hour when the Master cameAnd served me with His hand.

And it will be forever to meA chancel in the land.

12.After that feast I braved the town:

Ragged and weak I came;And passed a maid whose winnowing hair

Played on her head like flame.And she looked at me as if poverty

Were a badge of sin and shame.

Her brother stood-a watchful guardLest I should come too near.

His face was weak as coddled milk;Yet he had travelled here

With knife and gun and silver rodTo fill the woods with fear.

This tailored boy was in this landThat living things should die;

And I, he feared, was but a ladWho loved each woodland cry;

But he was garbed in Stirling tweedsAnd sadly dressed was I.

37

13.Was it two years or ages past

I pressed against my heart.A lovely maid, who like the wind,

Moved with unconscious art;And who, if she had seen me now,

Might too have drawn apart.

vVith six day's beard upon my face,To mate these hours of woe,

Y£a, even she, who loved me once,To hate me now might grow.

l\nd then I felt a great, cold fearThat this might still be so.

.And it was true, in after years\Vhen home I, drifting, came,

Without the beauty of my youthOr pot of gold or fame,

That, with a lip as cold as snow,I heard her speak my name.

Some men have gold; and I have none,Some have a heart in fee;

But I have neither maid to loveNor children at my knee.

And still my heart is full of song,Even as the barren sea.

39

14.N w Brunswick hath a centaur's soul:

It is both tame and wild.A savage spirit haunts it here,

And there it is a child.And by its thousand timid lakes

The boldest rocks are piled.

J saw her lovely woods at dawn;And over all the land

L gions of pine and cedar strode,As numberless as the sand:reat legions that will bow in deathSome day at man's command.

At last the marching legions ceased;And the world with grain was gold;

And spire and house and town appeared;And bells in the churches tolled.

And then before my Balboan eyesThe ancient sea unrolled.

The hoarse wheels groaned and stopped, and IFled wildly to the shore;

I fi d from tongues, that raped sweet words,To the ocean's clean-voiced roar.

And I heard a word that Enoch heardThrough Heaven's opened door.

41

And there I sang the rhymes of Rand,The bard of Blomidon;

And all I loved had life again,And all my woes were gone.

And all the suns that I had lostIn this high noonday shone.

15.Each churchman has his little god;

And comic gods are they;But in this Temple-by-the-Sea,

Where ceaseless organs play,The Priest is that eternal Love

The creeds have cast away.

I've found three stairs that lead to God­One at my mother's knee,

And one amid the silent hills,With steps of porphyry,

And one, a spiral way of lightThat rises from the sea.

The tang of salt is in my soul;And, if you press your ear

Against my heart, the wash of longGreen billows you will hear.

And, inland though I dwell, that runeGrows louder, year by year.

43

It is a slow, liturgic soundThat mocks our fevered times.

It flows within the artist's dyesAnd in the poet's rhymes.

It calls the scattered hosts of loveWith universal chimes.

16.Three days we stayed in gray St. John,

And thrice a day we ate;And while my comrades searched the town

I turned another gate;But one great bully dogged my path

As though his steps were Fate.

He was a raucous termagantWho hated man and beast.

His curse was for the Nazarene,And the Roofless Temple's Priest;

And he came like an unbidden guestTo scoff at those who feast.

His sneer was on my feast of sea,Drunk down with the wine of noon;

And he followed me when the tide was outTo meet a vanished moon;

And his boasts were timbrels that destroyedThe ocean's lonely croon.

45

Tc.ho~eth;5 bed ralherihan<;;leep in. e\ room with ~evero.l men,

m~ ~act-h in men. 9fOW$ le~$ ana.less evef\l Ifear, b~ my-fo.ith In.rnM 'SroJ,yj stron.«'ef". :lmen are,Clestroyers \ man ~5 a reaeemer.

But there was coming soon a dayWhen I that sneer would smite.

But here the winds were sweet and clean;The sands were linen'white;

And on this sacramental clothWhat man would dare to fight.

17.At night I slept on chairs arow

In Carleton's grim hotel.And a harder bed was never spread

By the chamber'maids of Hell.The place from rum and nicotine

Had a mausoleum's smell.

But every night, to dim my light,A gray old seaman trod .

That inn's dark stair, and he had halrLike the white, milkweed's pod.

A friend of man was he, and thusHe was a friend of God..

I I came to me with oaten cakesAnd a goblet warm with cream;

And when he came the walls aroundAn ther place did seem;

And many a time has he come backIn the beauty of a dream.

47

Perhaps to'night his bed is madeUnder the lonely sky.

And if it is I'd know the placeFrom angels- passing by;

Or where the winds of morning pauseAnd breathe a deeper sigh.

18.St. John is built upon a rock,

And very few her trees.But on her face the Sanskrit lies

Of many an ancient breeze.And there is something in her eyes

Drawn from the seven seas.

Her harbor is a host of spires:And, if you there should stray,

You'd think the woods of RestigoucheHad wandered down that way;

And lost their frocks beside the docks,And so were forced to stay.

The morning breeze along her quaysIs keen with oil and tar,

And ropes that coil like yellow snakesTo leap at the morning star,

And resinoids, insured at Lloyds,And spices from afar.

49

'The homes In our care were bOlJn'a.ssor South AXr~ca ana (hJri~l21heI/Ova~-ro ~n2\an.avU)eiook ourCO'mrnafta~~t1)m ~rt ~~i6~ armto~'cer:

InThe Qo"errtrne~t ilG"estE'o.to~oX-this aiffi 'i:>i5ier,=>liq:~?ofthl!coUt?!3-nv.\l~aer \.Chose commart.tl "ee sai led ,ttheJrepon:~o.5 or~e oX-the mostaeva~tl?OISsued '5\lCceil1e~ys of.,Rir~cy, I ';)ooubt U)he1herxou\~ yeS'Seb e;ter rcde.tne seas. a>

I love to stroll and ease my soulAlong each brimming quay,

Where cargoes, like a crazy quilt,Are spread around to see:

Lemons from Spain and bags of grain,And nuts from a tall palm tree.

19.We sailed away on a summer's day

With the horses all on board.And it seemed to me the land I left

Was bound to me with a cord,Which I must break for my belly's sake­

For my belly's sake, 0 Lord.

Over the rail of our grim shipI watched the fading land.

And then I heard, like the hiss of steam,An officer's hot command.

And I went down to a charnel-houseWhich a devil's soul had planned.

But as I went in a dumb, cold wayThe spirit within me sank,

As in a dream I often seemTo fall from an endless bank.

And a fox's gut has never smelledAs bad as our cabin stank.

51

We passed the land of Howe and Rand,And dipped in a great, gray fog.

And soon I knew why a vessel's crewIs keen for a whiff of grog.

And I learned a bit of the things not writIn a cautious seaman's log.

20.A snob is bad, yo heave my lad,

But a college snob is worse.And we had four, yo heave once more,

And each had a well-filled purse.And one and all at night would bawl

For Jenny, the family nurse.

They bribed the cook and lived apart,Each like a little lord;

A chanticleer's grandiloquenceWithin their small heads stored.

But when they puked they looked as meekAs any man on board.

I have no hatred in my heart;I would do no man wrong,

But to see those scented snobs upheaveWas sweet to me as a song;

And the sight was like a holidayTo our uncultured throng.

A family tree is a pretty thingAnd ancestors are fine;

'Tis good to pose in genteel clothes;But when the breezes whine

Both tramp and earl alike will hurlTheir breakfast in the brine.

21.Our berths were narrow, hard and damp,

And six were to a wall.And we would waken when some rat

Along our limbs would crawl.And darkness lay against our throats

And choked us like a shawl.

The breath of seamen dead and goneWas in that cabin's air.

And on our beds were deathless liceTha,t once were in their hair.

And bloated spiders, venom'ripe,And centipedes were there.

Old vomit, hard with time, was cakedUpon the walls and floor;

So foul was it the horses' dungSeemed perfume through the door.

And, day by day, that vile ship layOn the ocean like a sore.

5'5'

22.A sorry face had Bill McCord,

The scare-crow of that crew;And yet, when he would smile, it seemed

The dawn was breaking through;And seven day's beard upon his cheeks

Could not that smile undo.

As dismal earthen pots, that hideThe hue of crimson wine,

Prove outward forms do oft derideThe temple's inner shrine,

His visage grim and laggard limbBelied his soul's design.

He wore a cap of woolen grayAnd tawdry overalls;

Yet all the horses at his stepWould whinny in their stalls.

His way was rough and his manner bluff;But his mark was Tattersalls.

23.I was a lad of lonely ways,

Nor was I stout of limb;And so the bullies hurled at me

Their jestings coarse and grim;But through their taunts the voice of Bill

Consoled me like a hymn.

57

There were three braggarts on our boat­Two large ones and a small;

And though a fever burned my throat,And my walk was like a crawl,

I knew that, ere the ship should land,I'd fight them one or all.

A healthy man three times may fightAnd go to church next day;

But when a cough wails in the breast,Like a gloomy roundelay,

A man will fight but once, for thatWill be a bloody fray.

One braggart had a sturdy frameAnd pasty skin, like rice;

And he would taunt me like a fiendOr mock me with advice.

And every time he passed, my heartGrew like a block of ice.

And once his fist carne crashing out,And I went down, and rose;

And all the pity in my heartIn one cold moment froze.

And like a tropic storm carne downThe fury of my blows.

59

My strength in that wild moment brokeThe spirit of his brawn,

And when I touched him I was gladThe evil bout was on;

And I fought like a wounded thingUntil his boasts were gone.

And then I heard the victor's cheersFor clay had conquered clay.

And this was music in my earsOn such a friendless day.

But in my triumph there were tearsThat I must win this way.

24.But there was work upon that ship

Both sick and well must do;And ten great mares to feed, who ate

Until their snouts were blue.Since then I've seen nor horse nor man

That ate the whole day through.

A year before my feet had doneA century in ten.

But there was no place now to run;And so, before all men,

I swore I would never a valet beTo any horse again.

61

They handed me a curry-comb,And I was in despair

Whether to brush the horse'8 teethOr comb and braid its hair.

But when my breakfast left my throatDamn little did I care.

25.The foreman cursed me in that hour

For he was made of stone;And every word was like a dirk. That stabbed me to the bone.Yet I dared his wrath for the anodyne

Of a healing hour, alone.

I hid beside the engine roomAnd drowsed upon the floor,

Where I could hear a throbbing heartOver the sea's wild roar;

And I dreamed my pillow was the sandOn a white Ontario shore.

o peace of Christ to be alone!But brief that peace I knew;

For near me, in the swaying dark,A giant stoker drew.

And I pulled up my legs to letHis hulk of carcass through.

63

But he tripped hard upon my feetAnd in the darkness sprawled;

And when he rose I felt his words,Like molten metal, scald;

And back to vomit, rats and liceLike a lost soul I crawled.

And there I lay and heard the seaLeap at this choking vault.

And though I called like Joshua,Yet not a wave would halt;

But rose to blot the port-holes outAnd leave them oozing salt.

A hundred devils banged my headAnd both my lungs were sore,

As I lay counting bottle-fliesUpon the creaking door,

While ten sick men from lousy bedsHeaved slime across the floor.

You who have sailed on polished decks,In cabins sweet and clean,

Where all the horrors of a shipAre hidden by a screen,

Will never understand my woeNor know what it can mean.

65

For when things crawl along the wall,Like vermin in a hearse,

That endless sea of heaving greenSwells skyward like a curse;

And drops as though no stable thingWere in the universe.

One sick man in a room is bad,And two is damneder still,

But ten sick men, in loathsome beds,Like farmers throwing swill,

Will make, with none to clean the mess,The bravest stomach spill.

26.Upon a table sheathed with grime,

Where bluish flies did wade,There stood within this cabin of Hell

A tank of marmalade;And round it knives and forks of tin

And pewter-plates were laid.

The doors were smeared with marmalade:Its mark was everywhere.

We slid in it along the floor,And combed it from our hair;

And even now an orange peelCan give my soul despair.

67

Sometimes they poured us greasy soupOut of a high, tin pail;

Or threw us bread as I have seenThem throwing bread in gaol.

And this is truth, and not, my friends,An ugly fairy tale.

Since then I've never wondered whyThe winds so sadly croon;

Or why that rising curve of seaSinks downward in a swoon;

Or why there's such a bloodless lookUpon the staring moon.

27.When I was but a little lad

I loved to swing me high.And when I felt an inward qualm

I'd "let the old cat die."But he who swings the heaving waves

To stop in vain will cry.

So high these swelling waters roseThey blurred the light of Mars;

And swept the lesser charioteersOut of their silver cars.

And, when the storm was past, the sea.Was filled with fallen stars.

69

Not all the bards of deathless song,In one tremendous blast,

Could hymn that glory of the seaAfter the storm hath passed.

God grant the wind-tossed souls of menKnow such a peace at last.

On land the flowers have single souls;But here the flowers are one.

On land the trees have each a songTo chant the march of sun;

But here the song is communal,Nor finished nor hegun.

The wise man mirrors like the deepAll beauty that he sees;

His face is lighted up with stars;His soul reflects the trees;

And there's a song within his heartFor every bitter breeze.

28.Three days I lay in that foul room

And breathed its lifeless breath.Three days I heard the wild winds taunt

The ocean's shibboleth.And for three long days I raved at life

And praised the face of death.

71

Four suns went down and I aroseWith all my fever gone.

And though each chamber of my soulWarmed with a flooding dawn,

Yet England seemed a blessed wordAs the grim ship sailed on.

That night I took a shadowy wayPast the keen watchman's eyes,

And crept on the forbidden deck,And wrapped the healing skies

About me like a jewelled cloakStill warm with crimson dyes.

The stars were bright in Heaven's bowl,Like bubbles in a cup;

For the great Master of the HouseHad drunk the Sun's wine up.

And I said "Lord, what Thou hast leftIs good for me to sup."

That doleful cabin down belowSeemed now a dream to me.

Beneath this sky it was not trueThat such a hell could be;

Or, after lousy men, the godsWould toss me Heaven's key.

73

But as I washed in space my cares,Or hurled them overboard,

I heard the whisper of my nameDrive through me like a sword;

And, looking round, I met the grinOf faithful Bill McCord.

Bill's mouth was full of broken teeth,And he had grass-like hair,

And, when he grinned, his flapping earsDrove beauty to despair.

And yet no maiden's smile to meSeemed ever half so fair.

When on your ears the woes of lifeSound like the crash of doom,

Some humble soul, like Bill McCordWill wander through the gloom,

And straightway mend your broken faithUpon a golden 100m.

29.Two days from land I went on strike,

For a fever burned my breast;Nor oath nor threat was able to get

Me down to that vermin-nest.And the wage to come at my journey's end

I gave for a lease to rest.

75

I covered my flesh with a shawl of air,As clean as the dawn is clean;

And pillowed my head on a drift of light,And feasted on blue and green.

And the sun came up and the sun went downLike a giant tangerine.

My food was served on a silver plate;My cup had a golden band;

And I slept on deck, through Olympian hours,By the lotus breezes fanned;

And at seven bells of the second mornI heard the cry of land.

From a cabin's ease you hear this cryWith a calm and mild delight;

But when you look from a tramp,boat's deckThere is holiness in the sight.

So I bared my head and I felt ashamedThat my garments were not white.

Then Ireland grew from a shadowy form;And the strength of hills uprose;

And I beheld as lovely a greenAs a leaf in April knows;

And it grew in beauty as a bud,In the golden summer, grows.

77

30.The green of Ireland marks the soul

With a never-dying stain.It is the child of wistful suns

And slow, caressing rain.And none who love this living green

Can love so well again.

The storied tale of this land of songCan never be told in years.

It is the tale of a bacchanalWith a thirst for smiles and tears.

And a beating heart is the only throbOf the timepiece Ireland hears.

a land where knaves are rare, and foolsOn every hand abound:

Strange fools who love a poet's songMore than the guinea's sound.

God grant we all become such foolsAs those in Erin found.

The wit of Ireland is the beadOn the wine of mortal man;

And it winks and purrs in every glassFrom Limerick to Soudan.

It is quick and sharp as an Arab's sword,And soft as a Persian fan.

79

Fair is the poplar's silver green,And the green of pine on frost;

And lovely the green of a meadowland,And the green of rocks when massed;

But Ireland's green came out of a tubeWhich the Lord of Colors lost.

31.We crossed that sea whose lusty breath

Has ruined many a sail.And at the cool of dawn I leaned

Against the ship's cold rail,And saw the cliffs of England rise,

Austere, serene and pale.

Like some white forehead, hiding thoughtThese splendid cliffs uprose;

High symbols of a nation's strength,A people's fine repose;

And changeless as the English heartThrough every wind that blows.

Here was the land of "Wuthering Heights",And Shelley, Keats and Vaughan;

And here came Browning with a songThat wakened men like dawn;

And here the Gypsy Scholar walkedIn England's Avalon.

81

And here - the moors of Lorna Doone;And here was Hardy's coast;

And from a distant English townI heard Micawber's boast;

And Shakespeare's glory welcomed me,And Dickens was my host.

I saw fair Lucy far afield­"A violet by a stone."

It seemed to me she long had beenA sweetheart of my own.

And then I wept for Lycidas,And heard La Belle "make moan."

"Is Barkis willin' yet?" I asked,"Yea willin' as of old."

"Who lights the fires in Chelsea, now;Or is the hearthstone cold?"

"My lad, the Sage has gone to landsWhere women never scold."

32.A gentle wind came up behind

And blessed us in our flight.And I never knew a sky so blue

Or a sea of such delight.And then that port of gentle winds,

Southampton, have in sight.

83

At fall of dark our weary barqueCrawled up along a pier.

And ropes leaped out and hawsers groanedSweet discord on the ear.

But time dragged slow as a logger's chain,And each minute seemed a year.

And while I stood, as a bird that seesThe doors of his cage flung wide,

There came command we were not to land'Till the Monday morning tide.

And forty hours seemed as forty yearsAfter our ghastly ride.

'Twas Saturday night; but now it wasFor me the grave of hope;

And crazed for fragrant grass and leaf,As fiends are crazed for dope,

With rebel hands I climbed to shoreOn a valiant strand of rope.

Swiftly I ran the salted boardsUntil I found sweet earth:

And at its touch I learned againWhat life and love were worth.

And things I thought forever deadHad now a second birth.

85

33.Along that rope once more I crawled,

And fooled the watchman's eye.And all night long the lazy hours

With feet of lead went by.But dawn came up with a lighter foot

And the wind with a sweeter cry.

My hair was long; my eyes were red;My clothes to rags were torn;

My toes came through each rotting shoe;I was a thing outworn,

When my discharge from that devil's bargeI got that Monday morn.

They gave us scripts to take us backFrom England home again.

And in a hopeless hour, I soldMy pass for two and ten;

And said farewell to Bill McCord,One of God's noblemen.

Adieu, dear Bill; some day, perchance,In life's less fevered climes,

You'll know the vagabond you loved,In those most evil times,

Had made that love a deathless thingWithin a book of rhymes.

87

In \90~The \ow'Eice1 E:rc.2'\ishbarbers ysect Qoneo ose,emtkHish­mVf.l& wh.ich. an R.m rlcan barberbestows \JPO~ yoiJ. thisICjlf1.sonalart'6t ~lJtm,( rtel'r COD c\05el~iha.trreStem'Dlea ct com/lcf neaae xorDevi!:s.D; an-d. H0':U€-ver I rc.oleCl 1~i man~res.peetablecitr~ms l1aJiheirneaos-l+'usCfO\LJpeO., . m

34.I shed my rags and bought new clothes;

A barber trimmed my hair;And shaved me as you mow the grass;

And turned me then and thereFrom a vagabond to a jaunty youth

With a manner debonair.

And then I searched for work, nor caredWhat fee this work might bring:

Dishwasher, scrubman, scavenger­I pled for anything.

But of my worth, I had no scriptFrom scholar, knave or king.

A reference is England's food,And scoundrels know this well;

For only a man who comes referredCan labor or buy or sell.

And lucky is he with a referenceFrom the lowest imp in Hell.

I walked all day Southampton's stone,'Till heart and feet were sore,

When on a surgeon's card I read:"Wanted, a lad to chore."

I :t"ang the bell and faced a manWith manners of a whore.

89

The braggart saw my curling lips:The savage west was there ­

The land where kings and coronetsAre less than the desert air.

"Your grace" said I, with mocking bowAnd the devil in my stare.

35.A poet knows one awful dread;

It meets him at each door;It is a ghost that calls for bread,

And calls for evermore.And it walks at night about his bed

And creaks upon the floor.

I've sung an hundred songs for men,But still that ghost is here

To freeze the current of my penAnd frost my songs with fear.

At dawn's cold light and deep at nightIts form is ever near.

Three days I searched in vain for work;And then the ghost came back;

And night and mom, with looks forlorn,It hung upon my track;

And it held a shroud before my eyes,And a suit of deepest black.

91

And one dark night I battled it:It was a hideous wraith.

It wrapped its arms my soul aboutAnd wrestled with my faith.

It choked in me the joyful shoutOf what the spirit saith.

It dragged me down a lonely street;And over me did gloat;

And I could see it had my eyesAnd wore my shoes and coat,

Whereon, in rage, my fingers closedLike coils about its throat.

I left the wraith, and back to townI tramped on stone and board;

And pawned a trinket, and knelt downIn thanks unto the Lord.

And then I fed on milk and breadUntil I was restored.

36.I rose next morn to meet the sun

And tossed two pennies down;And both came head, and so I said:

''1'11 walk to London town,And meet the king and greet the earls

And statesmen of renown."

93

With twopence in my hand I plungedIn England's gloom of trees;

And multitudinous delightsWere on the scented breeze.

The world was like a treasure houseAnd I had all the keys.

At noon I gave my last poor coinFor water, cheese and bread;

And wondered where I'd eat at nightAnd where I'd find a bed.

But when I rose to go I feltMy hand by Someone led.

And then I turned my pockets out;And they were clean and bare;

But I had slain my wraith of doubt,And throttled my despair;

And I was rich, for all aboutWas England's fragrant air.

I never bought a thing with goldThat made my pulses leap.

I never bought with gold a thingThat made me laugh or weep.

With yellow gold you cannot buySong of sea, or the blue of sky;

With yellow gold you cannot buyWhat any man may keep.

95

You cannot buy the poet's songOr the wisdom of the wise;

You cannot bribe those hosts that throngThe roadways of the skies;

Nor can you buy that holy lightWithin a lover's eyes.

37.In shadows of a devil's house

Is often found a saint;And so, upon the London road,

When I was weak and faint,With angels black and angels white

My soul became acquaint.

I asked for water at one doorWhere humble folk abode;

And thanked a girl with English eyes.And, when far down the road,

I heard her call from her garden'wall,And quickly back I strode.

No Indian Prince to England's kingHas ever given aught

That looked so lovely as the giftThis kindly maiden brought ­

A bag of cakes that was neatly tiedWith a woman's holy thought.

97

Their flavour still is on my tongue.And after all these years

Sometimes, upon some dreary road,That deed of love appears;

And when my faith is weak in man,The memory of it cheers.

o nameless, yet immortal maid,Who gave one minstrel bread,

May you, as I, this summer's dayTo doors of saints be led.

And may they give you wine to drinkAnd rose leaves for your bed.

38.A bag of spiced and sugary cakes

Was snug upon my armAs I walked down the London road

By peaceful wood and farm;Nor dreamed I in the world about

Was aught that could alarm.

But two stout renegades sprang outA darksome bit of wood.

And I, to save a bloodly bout,As any wise man should,

Gave each a bun and then did runAs swiftly as I could.

99

I would not run that fast againTo save a pot of gold.

But those good cakes were treasure-trovesWhich I had sworn to hold;

And who would steal my slender mealMust be a robber bold.

39.When afternoon was high I stopped

To find a resting place;And there I met a Yankee tar

With hunger on his face.He haa walked down from Ludgate Hill,

And looked a sorry case.

'Twas good to see a western man;And so I learned his tale;

How Mile-End-Road had, a-la-mode,Put knock-out in his ale;

And how the Brooklyn he must reachBefore her hour to sail.

I split with him my bag of cakes;And he went on his way;

But in the handshake of the ladI took my joyous pay.

And this was coin to make me gladOn many a coming day.

101

At eventide my flesh imploredFor a bed to ease my pain.

And my feet were led where roses pouredIn a fount of crimson rain,

Where I met a sentinel of the LordTo whom none pled in vain.

I asked for work and not for gold;But this good man plunged down

His fingers in a slender purseAnd brought out half a crown.

He was a clergyman, but notThe kind they breed in town.

I took his card, and, when my FateLooked with a kindlier eye,

I paid his loan; and here it is ­That man of love's reply;

And every word is like a roseWhose fragrance will not die.

40.At night I came to Winchester

Where stands the shrine of Jane,Who took me as boy with her

Down many an English lane.And by her tomb I heard the stir

Of footsteps soft as rain.

103

I have not found a shyer placeThan this cathedral town.

She sometimes dares the hills around;And then comes quickly down.

And you must guess her lovely formThrough her ancestral gown.

Her customs make the stars look young.And with her ancient eyes,

Like some old woman, when a childHugs to her friendly thighs,

She sees with joy a new moon hungAgainst her aged skies.

41.I paid that night sixpence for bed,

And sixpence for a meal;And when dawn broke to Basing-stoke

I danced with toe and heel;And, at my side, in a mist of green,

Fair Hampshire stepped a reel.

I've seen a stream in the Kicking HorseDance fifty leagues of stone;

I've watched the savage dance of the seaWhere Labrador makes moan;

But here was a lovely minuetThat moved like a scarf wind-blown.

105

42.At Basing-stoke I found a church

More solemn than its dead.Its belfry seemed to know by heart

The tale above each bed,Which that gray pilgrim of the wind

A thousand years has read.

On Judgment Day from England's clayWill rise a stalwart crew.

And in this churchyard I could feelThe strength our fathers knew:

It seemed to rise above these tombsIn mighty muscled Yew.

I read the legends, brown with years,And droned the words of Gray.

And all the prayers denied the deadImpelled my lips to pray.

And, as I mused "the curfew tolledThe knell of parting day."

43.The moon is like some blushing bride

Who slowly bares her charms;At first her slim white curve of throat,

And then her marble arms.And night by night, against the west,I saw her gown slip down her breast

Above those English farms.

107

An English farm has many crops;And some of them were sown

When Alfred gave a brighter crownTo England's youthful throne.

And these great crops, the harvestersHave wisely left alone.

My flesh grew weak, and yet my soulAt every step grew strong,

And every scented lane I passedImpelled my lips to song.

"Surely the God of English lanes,"I cried, "can 'do no wrong."

Then hour by hour that friendly look,Which country roadways wear,

Grew less and less, until at lastIt showed but here and there;

And everything, that God had made,Dwindled, or grew less fair.

And here the flowers along the roadGrew darker in their stalk;

And none had time to sit with meAnd have a friendly talk;

For every man who passed me byWas quicker in his walk.

109

Fewer and fewer grew the trees,The air less pure and sweet;

And gently did that country roadBecome a city street:

Thus, ere my soul was quite aware,Great London caught my feet.

44.At sleepy Staines I asked a man,

Who wore a bally glass,What was the name of that small stream

Which there I chanced to pass.And with a withering look he said:

"The Thames, you bloody ass."

"The Thames!" said I; "the Thames!" said I;For, though my flesh was weak,

The western fire was in my blood,And I was far from meek.

And so I cried: "I am an ass,A bloomin', blithering, bloody ass

If that is not a creek."

And then and there I dealt his calmWith these kind words a blow:

"If that's your Thames, my jolly man,I must take care, you know,

For, if I chanced to sneeze in it,Your creek might overflow."

111

45.I've walked in deserts far from men,

And heard the sage-brush moan;But never heard so grim a word

As that dull cry of stone,When I walked down through London town,

Cold, friendless and alone.

But in that city's leagues of lightNew gods were born to me;

For there's a womb in every woeThat sets a new life free;

And every travail of that wombIs crowned with joys to be.

The evening bells spoke through the darkTo comfort my dismay -

The bells of Richard Whittington ­And I could hear them say:

"Three times Lord Mayor of London Town,"As on that ancient day.

And then those bells a new song sang,A song for me alone:

"The path of poverty is cold,And hard the alien's tone;

But some fine day you come this wayWhen flags of joy are flown."

113

46.I came to Hounslow with the dark,

And High Street's shops were gayWith men and women buying food

To bridge the Sabbath Day.And, mad with hunger at the sight,

I stopped a while to pray.

And One who notes the sparrow'8 fallWalked High Street at my side.

He put His ring upon my handAs though I were a bride;

And led me to a holy innWhere angels oft abide.

That refuge was a baker's shopThat bathed in cheerful light;

And here I flung two pennies downWith fingers cold and white.

And she who served me seemed to guessHow sorry was my plight.

She asked my name and where I dwelt,And why my vagrant quest;

And called her husband, and he cameAnd bade me stay and rest,

Yea, bade me stay the Sabbath dayAnd be his honored guest.

115

His eyes were like a peaceful Inn;His voice a cool retreat

That put eternities betweenHis garden and the street.

And quickly did our spirits jointAs when two rivers meet.

His lady was as calm as starsAbove a grove of pine;

And something like a starry lightWithin her eyes did shine;

And even now I see those eyesBefore me, like a shrine.

"My son had been your age," she saidt"Had he been left to me."

And then she looked across some voidAs men look out toward sea

For sails that nevermore will comeBack to the sheltering quay.

'Twas paradise to feel once moreA pillow's drowsy swoon;

To slide in linen white and coolWas like a lovely rune.

And it was sweet to dream of stormsFrom some secure lagoon.

117

I did not ask this family's creed;Nor did I care to know;

For they were good SamaritansWho, when the tides were low,

Renewed my soul, and left me strongFor the battling undertow.

Good men and women are to meThy dearest words, 0 Lord.

Vviser are they than learning's core,Stronger than Egypt's sword.

They are the founts where faith and loveAnd beauty are restored.

47.I left that fine retreat from strife

Upon a Monday morn;And gave back God His rose of life,

And took again His thorn;And wounds, so lately healed, again

By the briars of Fate were torn.

On Monday morning life is low;And hope and purpose wane;

But with three shillings in my handI was a prince again.

And I found a room on Elric Street,Which hides by Great'Church'Lane.

119

Ten thousand doors had spurned my knock,Or driven me off with wrath,

So can I doubt that to this doorSome Comrade led my path?

And to meet a friend at your journey's endIs a pleasant aftermath.

48.The dame of 13 Elric Street

Gave me her choicest bed.For she had dwelt in Canada

One joyous year, she said,She had a young and wistful face,

But her hands with toil were red.

Her husband crawled to work at dawnLike a half-frozen fly.

And once a week he went to seekA bit of sunlit sky.

And once a week he ate plum-duffAnd laid a shilling by.

My room was small and cold and dark,But it was clean and neat.

And it was like a blessed arkAfter the friendless street

Where, day by day, I took my wayWith weights upon my feet.

121

Who lives with London's poor, aloneTheir greatness may apprize;

For, when the folk on Regent StreetScorned hunger in my eyes,

Some hand, scarce stronger than my own,With bread would bid me rise.

49.The tourist comes to London town

And rides the busses' backs;Or takes an hour to see the Tower

And feel its bloody axe.And then the show, and Rotten Row

And Madame Tussaud's wax.

He takes a bedroom at the Ritz,A box at Drury Lane,

He strolls about the SerpentineAnd damns the English rain.

But he does not know great London's woeNor hear her cry of pain.

Sometimes he goes down Mile'End'Road,Where rows of hawkers yell.

But he doesn't stray a block away,Where London's outcasts dwell;

Where heads are hit and throats are slit,And bodies tossed to Hell.

123

50.One human cry in London's air

Is like one wave at sea;So is it strange men could not hear

The cry of pain in meWhen all around my spirit found

One endless agony?

Upon the Strand there was a shopWhose window groaned with pies;

And there in hunger I would stopAnd feed awhile my eyes.

And oftentimes my spirit feltStrange envy for the flies.

And here, upon one hopeless day,My sky grew dark with cloud;

And that old wraith assailed my faithAnd this time left me cowed.

Upon the street its awful feetFell like a hammer loud.

I wandered home, as in a dream,With strength-forsaken knees;

But to my door there came once moreA gift of bread and cheese.

And wildly, like a drowning man,These morsels I did seize.

125

And then a deeper hunger came ­For rocks and untamed lands.

And like a far mirage I sawOntario's shining sands,

And heard the songs of rivermen,And felt their iron hands.

And I grew mad for savage things;For canyons wild with stone;

For pine and spruce and tamarack,By the sleeping ages sown.

And a desert thirst was on my lipsAnd in my blood and bone.

51.One August morn they crowned a king;

And England's skies were fair;And I went through the jostling town

To see the royal pair.And all the earls and all the girls

And all the lads were there.

The people came in laughing hordesAnd left the countryside

As cold and barren as the sandAt ebbing of the tide.

And there were few in all the landTo miss a new king's ride.

127

The heavens seemed like drifted blueFrom some Italian sky.

And I never will forget the wayAn English king rode by,

Nor the wave of cheers that billowed pastIn one great endless cry.

And often now in dreams of dayI hear again that roar,

That rolled, like breakers of the sea,Along this human shore,

Dying and rising as it wentBehind me and before.

An Englishman is a sober chapWhen he takes you out to dine;

But an English crowd is a fount of wit;And it purrs like beaded wine;

And many a joke was a master-strokeAlong that laughing line.

With empty belly none can keepHis patriotism strong:

And when a well-filled king went by,Between a cheering throng,

I stood as silent as the nightWhen winds are tired of song.

129

But men with bellies void as mineStood up and cheered the sight ­

Gaunt men who fight for food like swine,When they have strength to fight;

Sad men who take the chilling starsFor a coverlet at night.

No longer shall I wonder whyOne dead moon swings the tide

When one gold crown can fill the townFrom every country-side.

But when Edward passed I thought of howThe Son-of-Man did ride.

The cheering died; the crowd went out;And home I dragged my feet;

And to lay my head upon a bed;o God, but it was sweet.

But there were gleams through all my dreamsOf bread and wine and meat.

52.For three long weeks those English skies

Were hung with blackest crepe;And everywhere that I would go

I met the hideous shapeOf that grim wraith my battling faith

Could nevermore escape.

131

And then one day my hope came back,And that old spectre fled;

And through the clouds of gray and blackThe sun came shining red.

And London seemed to rise againAs though it had been dead.

I sold a tale for thirty bob;And took my evening meal

With one of England's scribes who ownedA family crest and seal.

But it was three whole days beforeMy stomach's wounds would heal.

And then I found a west-bound boatThat sought a cabin boy;

And soon I passed by John O'GroatAnd wished the old man joy:

"Should I come back please look me upAt the Ritz or the Savoy."

53.No song that dips in blood and tears

By God will ever be spurned.My rhymes have felt the earthquake's crash;

With storms have they been churned;Great craters gape along my song

Where lava streams once burned.

133

And he who knows a crown of thornsAlone shall lift to light

Those mortals broken by the wheelOf life's relentless might.

And only He who knows the darkShall rescue men from night.

Sometimes the rarest flow of wineFrom some poor vessel pours,

And bastards who were sadly born;May walk Valhalla's shores;

And oftimes there is purple bloodIn beggars at our doors.

54.Home is the Port of all Content,

And joys eternal leaven;And six days brought us sight of land;

And we made port in seven;And every mile was like a rung

On a ladder up to Heaven.

We passed at dawn by Labrador,Pale as a mid-day moon.

And then I heard St. Lawrence droneAn old familiar tune;

And cliffs, with singing choirs of spruce,Were carved against the noon.

135'

When Gaspe grew from purple mistTo carved, cathedral stone,

I stood in wonder, with my soulTo ancient stature grown;

And all the nomad joy of lifeRan riot in my bone.

No pillar held my Abbey's dome,No beam nor architrave;

And when I saw the Laurent hillsRise, like a swelling wave,

I felt like some long-buried soulWho walks above his grave.

Then Beauty ran the coralled windAnd tossed me all her keys;

And I was one with shouting rock,Was one with singing seas,

Was one with that great comradeshipOf tall, unconquered trees.

The city-dweller to his cave,The badger to his hole.

"Lord of the Wilderness!" I cried;"Restore me, make me whole:

Give blood of balsam to my heart,Wind marrow to my soul."

137

55.The voyage passed another noon

When I saw, gray and brown,The haughty heights of old Quebec,

And her humble lower Town ­One gazing meekly at the stars,

One looking proudly down.

Our ship was moored, our voyage done;I touched the joyous land;

I climbed to Montmorency rockAnd there awhile did stand,

And watched an autumn sun go downIn a sky like yellow sand.

And then I ran, nor cared who saw,And found a country field,

Wherein I thawed my frozen heartWhich long had been congealed;

And like a pilgrim at a shrine .I waited to be healed.

The moon came up and gently spurredAlong the light of day,

The crickets sang and beetles whirred,In such a friendly play;

It seemed to me they must have heardThat I had been away.

139

A cow beside me munched her meal;A priest passed by in prayer;

A hawk flew circ1ewise to heaven,Up a dark spiral stair;

And I could feel the scented breezeLike fingers in my hair.

Deep in the valley droned a bell,A field'mouse scampered fast ­

All simple wonders of the world,The first things and the last.

For these shall be when cities fallAnd the last king has passed.

5'6.Perhaps, thought I, this is a dream;

And when I wake at mornI'll be again on London's streets

Cold, hungry and forlorn.But soon I knew I did not dream

From rustling in the corn.

Eight steps of stone are at the gatesOf Montmorency Park;

And I slept here, and over meI rew a sheet of dark.

But I was up at rosy dawnBefore the meadow'lark.

141

57.Love finds in Separation's hour

A ring with golden band;And under London's ghastly arcs

I found my native land.And now, as lovers, she and I

Will wander hand in hand.

I love my land too well to speakThe lie she loves to hear.

I know she has a painted cheek,And callous is her ear.

And the bard who sings of pleasant thingsIs the one she holdeth dear.

My land is last to living thought,And last to walk in light:

My country, last across the worldTo leave tradition's night.

Strong hater of her seers is she,And worshipper of might.

And yet, although she hates my song,Which bites into her ease,

I love her as the dawn loves light,As motion loves the trees,

As roses love a garden wall,As music loves the seas.

143

58.Immortal Vastness that doth brood

In space; serene, benign,Whose pure lips deign to wear the stain

Of man's poor cup of wine,Lift to Thy strong, eternal song

This broken cry of mine.

145

C(9imesSquar~

F aRTY-SECOND Street is where life begins -Where the subways vomit on the cool night air;

Night-clubs, theatres, dance-halls, inns,Broadway is a woman with bright, red hair.Blind Bill's tapping on the pavement there.His tap, tap, tap, is the count of doom.Broadway down is dark as a tomb.Broadway up is a sea of fireWhere a tired world burns its mad desire.They beat like moths at this red-white flame,And they come out blind and they come out lame.Forty-second Street is where life begins:Night-clubs, theatres, dance-halls, inns.Forty-second Street is the place life ends:The life of home and the life of friends.

Broadway is wise as a night-hawk's wing,But she never heard a white birch sing.And she never saw a stream drop downFrom a silver star to a pine-washed town.And she never heard cold balsams croonAs they stroked dark boughs on a stainless moon.

147

And she never knew the joy of calmWhen tamaracks sing in a morning psalm.Broadway is drunk from her street's mad cries;And a dead soul sleeps on the couch in her eyes.Her jazz-hounds bray and she pours her goldWhile men are hungry and women are cold.She pours her gold, and a lad from MaineDraws over his shoulders a cloak of rainAnd dreams as he walks the Great White WayOf the pine-dark hills where the blue lakes play.He's a hungry lad too proud to tell;But his brain grows mad at the drifting smellFrom the heartless doors of a hundred grills:He is mad for bread and the white Maine hills.

The world-heard "Times" has a world-seen wallWhere letters of gold in a white ring crawl.And night by night on a living wireThe tale of the world flows here in fire.But up at a turn in the Great White WayA bread-line crawls like a cloud of gray.And as it moves to the soup's warm goalThe lights grow cold as the midnight's soul.Criterion, Astor, Gayety, Loew's,Paramount, Palace - shows, shows, shows!And the taxies roar and the bread line grows.And the night-clubs drink in a house of mirth,The suicide-cups of a mirth-mad earth.

148

Go back, my lad, to the pine-dark hills;There's a white way there that is bright with snow.The "White Way" here has a light that kills;And its cry of mirth is a cry of woe.Go back my lad to the north's wild lakesWhere a clean night sleeps and a clean dawn wakes.

Forty-second Street is where life begins:Night-clubs, theatres, dance-halls, inns.Forty-second Street is the place life ends ­The life of home and the life of friends.

149

ea1Jecnwellers

T HERE is a dark cavernFro~en with a night-shade,

Where tired folk are dwellingLike unmeadowed sheep.Here no thrush is musical;No flower is fragrant.Who dwells long here is blindedWith a strange sleep.

Among the tired hostsAre a few gay folkWho love cold shadowsAnd who love jaundiced light.They sing the tired to sleepWith a strange narcoticDrawn from black poppiesOn a ledge of night.

Wine sparkles in the cavern;But that wine is bloodGathered from the tired heartsIn a cup of hate.Love stands there naked,Thin-lipped and homeless,Beating with her white handsAt a closed gate.

150

Above the dark cavernAre wild, wooded hills,And corn-whispering acresWith a rich field.The air is full of song:Meadow-larks and whip-poor-willsMake a glad templeOf every wood and field.

Here are cool hammocksBy clean, laughing waters,And here is red fruitGroaning on the limb.And here is Love,Under moon-whitened blossomsSinging out thanksgivingIn a low, sweet hymn.

Many come to the cavernAnd open the dark gate;And bid all the tired folkDrink of the day.They tell them of bird-songAnd tree-song and sea-song;But when the gates closeNo man has come away.

151

Crosses have called them;White fire has urged them;Saints have exhorted them,And martyrs have died,But the sad, tired folkCreep to their cold bedsLike a fearful bridegroomTo a hated bride.

152

<:Balde7rCountain

JOE lives on Bald Mountain - Revelstoke way.He is up near stars, where wild goats play.

He loves Bald Mountain in a strong heart's way:And old Bald Mountain loves Joe.

His cabin is spired with long, blue smoke,As high as a spire seen by Salisbury folk.He goes twice yearly down to Revelstoke ­Once on the clean, crisp snow.

There's a wide plateau around Joe's doorWhere in August the flowers in a red fire roar.Here the rainbows lean, to re-Iearn that loreWhich the high blooms only know.

Thomas a Kempis is the cabin's guest:There's a wild field-rose in Othello pressed:The Mermaid-Tavern has a spark out west;And the stars are in its glow.

Joe came from Sussex and hawthorne lanes.His hands were soft in the English rains;But they're hard hands now, and covered with stainsWhen the blackberries hang low.

1)3

On winter nights, when the air is thin,He listens to Kreisler on his violin,But he tunes off when the crooners begin,And the jazz-hounds blare their woe.

Joe, the hermit, was an Oxford blue ­The stroke of a two-year's winning crew;Yet no one knows but a favored fewWho were old-time cronies of Joe.

He often says: "You may think me queer.There's a pagan blush on things up hereThat suits me better than the smirk and leerWhen the churchfolk come and go."

Joe, the hermit has missed many things .­Crime and the law and the word that stmgs;But his sleep is cool with angels' wingsThat over his cabin flow.

Joe's on Bald Mountain, and he's there to stay:He is up near stars where wild goats play.He loves Bald Mountain in a strong man's way.And old Bald Mountain loves Joe.

NOTES: You will find ~ore than one Oxford man who pre­fers the solitude of Canada's mountains to the pettiness of modernlife.

In the rarified air of high altitudes the smoke from a cabinwill. on windless days, rise to great heights in a straight column.The reference to Salisbury spire-the highest spire in England·­is employed to emphasiz.e this phenomenon.

There are plateaus in the Rocky Mountains that, in August, areflame-swept with flowers of incomparable brilliance.

154

The eosmicLibrarian...,

I wake as the night's drowsy vergerSnuffs out the rebellious last star;

And I watch the titanic slow mergerOf color and sunlight afar,

The supreme and primordial mergerOf color and sunlight afar.

I walk in the young, virile splendor,As the graying sky pales into white;

And I spend, like a prodigal spender,Warm gold from the mintage of light­

Warm gold that no mortal needs renderTo Caesar's imperial might.

Here, at the far end of dawning,I meet one, ripe-fruited with years;

Bare-footed and bronze, he is lawningA garden with orderly shears.

Above him a cumulus awningHides the lost tribes of the spheres.

155

He culls from compassionate grassesThe warm elemental of ruth.

Unconscious of lore, he amassesThat wisdom whose ageing is youth;

That wisdom the lore-hunter passes,That lore which is basic of truth.

He reads from a book that is seededWith script of the Infinite Plan.

The Cosmic Librarian has deededThese volumes primeval to man,

These tomes which the wise have unheededSince ever our learning began.

156

Cl9he 'UVoef ]3ornG)3eauty

T HIS winter's night is ~t~ange~y cold with fire,With slow, deceIvmg light that numbs andchills.

The star-dissolving moon moves swiftly higherAnd pours her white libation on the hills;Nor knows how cold the silver oil she spills

Over that flaming hearth where, fierce and hard,The white fuel burns, nor is consumed, nor charred.

We thought all beauty luscious, warm, mature ­The purpling grape, the woodland rich with leaf;

Yet here she walks a cold, dismantled moorAnd draws her hand across the harp of grief.No harvest gold is here, no mellowing sheaf,

And yet what glory can surpass the lightOf these high, silver candles of the night.

We are all mourners, and some darkly go;And some translate their discord to sweet sound,

And take their grief as winter takes her snowTo beautify her sadly-widowed ground.And this brave spirit in all life is found -

In the green ivy's flood which dares to crawlOver the broken arch, the crumbling wall.

157

No silver birches* flamed across this woodUntil her piteous charcoal bade them rise.

No cascade ever danced her interlude,Between the cloud and sea, until the skiesLoosed on the earth their cataclysmic cries.

And not until the loam with steel was tornWas shaped the bearded wheat, the yellowing corn.

Thus, as through wounded clouds we see the stars,We shall look up through sorrow and be glad,

Reach through the rift and pluck the rose of MarsAnd wear it on the cloak of Galahad.The preludes of our joys are ofttimes sad;

And, if our entrance moved through gates of pain,Shall that dread, grievous exit be in vain?

Pale winter evening, cold with frost'born fire!Wild, hueless valleys, chilled with mocking light!

Is this thin, shivering wood, this gownless choirThe same that sang bravuras through the nightWhen rose an August moon with copper light?

Is this mute stream the same as that which ranHeavy with stars and warm with feet of Pan?

15'8

Yea, 'tis the same sweet spirit in them burns;Nor are they turned by sorrow from their goal;

But hold a weave which in their looming turnsUntil we gain the beauty of the whole.And when they shall again reverse the scroll,

Th~s frail white moon that, bloodless, floats on highWIll mount once more, in reddening bronze, the sky.

*After a forest fire silver birches will often rise from the burntground.

15'9

StarSandals

THE stars have lost their sandals in the sea;They drift, a silver host, across the bars:

The slender shoe of Venus, blown alee,And that red, flaming moccasin of Mars.

The austere host of heaven that march the night,With leagues of silent chaos in each stride,Lament when they behold their fallen lightDrift, in a chartless joy, across the tide.

And we, like sandals of our loftier souls,Move with more vagrance than our spirit wills,Caught in a savage ocean-tide that rollsWith fickle heart between the eternal hills.

160

Cl5he 'Plains ofcAbraharn...,

YEAR after year the grass has slowly spread,Over this field's r pr ach, her cloth of green,

Like healing ointment on the wounds of war.Year after year the solemn daisies blowTheir frail, whit reeds of beauty on this moorTo drown th cho f old bugle calls.To-day the four- dged winds of heaven liftA nobler blad than any two-edged swordWhich swung in man's old madness on this hill,Where tw alone of all who fell have fame'While all th ther sleepers, brave as they, 'As dear to a maiden's arms, to a comrade's heartAre chambered in our long forgetfulness. 'They di d t give red valor to this field;But what hist ric glamor shall atoneFor the untim ly sleep of one dead soul;Or what romance of battle can compareWith that white splendor of an age of peace?I turn these ras like a mighty tomeAnd hear those wind-voiced trees that on these cliffsSang the dawn-anthems of a waking world.Why chain this field to one mad night of war;

161

When the cool hand of peace lay on its shoulderThrough lovely eons of unwarring time?Here now two lovers walk this commanding hill;And what they say shall linger on the windWhen men forget this was a place of strife.The fleur-de-lis and the red English roseHave each a lovelier essence than was spilledOn any field of battle. May they grow,In the fair garden of our bloodless years,Over the eternal tombs of sword and gun.

162

'The LesbiarwGives a ~se

163

6J¥[anhattarw

SHE turns aside the traffic of the cloudsAnd searches in the jewel-vault of the stars,

Wounding the wings of angels, flying low,And spreading fear on pathways of the moon.No reach has dared so grandly since the hillsRose in white fury at a glacier's hom.Manhattan, great rock-lifter of the world!Who shall assail your herculean fame?

And yet, 0 proud Manhattan, thus did ThebesAnd thus did Babylon prepare for sleep -The same long sleep of dust that waits your towers.The empyrean scythe is harder steelThan any you have tempered: at its touchYour temples will bow down like yellow grain;And nothing shall endure beyond that daySave some Homeric glory that was caughtFrom the high mountain reaches of your song.Go then, if you would keep for that great hourSome deathless fragment, and renew your heart,Until a pastoral hungering for truthAnd all things lovely shapes into a creed.The call for beauty now is a whispering wind ­A murmuring inaudible in your halls

164

Drowned by a bugle wail for baser things.Where is the Sinain lust for wisd m n w?And where that silenc in who w mb i rnAll immortality f th ught nd und?What tempI shall av il f r nIt n!What structur hall t n f r nIt ul!You fashioned w 11 y ur white, gig ntic mbTo rake the t ngl fr m th cl ud f heavenBut failed t rob th rp n from th hairOf that d rk- y d M dus in your soul.

Manhattan, u n f Builders, hail all hail!w n it r wn, and you have daredld b yon t in the breast of noon.

Now t th ightl ss towers, the loftier domesThan any y u have builded with carved stone.Mix y ur new m rtar with a flaming rose;And ch y marble, cool as early dawn,From th n lected quarries of your heartAnd build f r coming hosts the towers invisible.

165

Cbhe Song of theC)\{gw Jesus

A LL the fat and shiny preachersFrom their pulpits say:

HTime has made a great improvementIn our Lord today.

Once he preached a foolish sermonPraising peace and love;

Now he wears a colonel's khakiAnd a mailed glove."

Here comes Jesus, lowly Jesus,Riding on a battleship:

HRuie Britannia" in his pocket,Pistols on his hip.

Simon Peter, happening near,Turns and says to me:

"Gadzooks, how the Lord has changedSince old Gethsemane."

Jesus led the English forcesOr the bishop lied,

Jesus drove the Prussian horses(Gad! how he could ride!).

He went out with every army,Driving this and that;

Russian, German, French and English:What an acrobat!

166

"Blessed are the meek," said J sus,In the days of yor ;

Now he stand in nav and pulpitUrging m n to w r.

Long ago He cri d to P t r:"Put aw y your w rd."

Now h Ie d Hi h t b ttl :He's a fickl L rd.

Once H said: HResist not evil."(Did H sp ak in fun?)

N w h f v r sword and shrapnel,B y n t, g nd gun.nc, 11 n ti ns saw sweet pity

n Hi sorrowed face.N w he keeps his love exclusiveFor some favored race.

H r comes Jesus, lowly Jesus,Riding on a battleship:

"Rule Britannia" in his pocket,i tols on his hip.

imon Peter, happening near,Turns and says to me,

" adzooks, how the Lord has changedince old Gethsemane."

167

Light CGhouvrcy CGorch

R ELIGHT ~y torch, 0 Lord, .at Thy white fire;I hold It far aloft, and walt Thy will:

My hands have fallen in slumber on my lyre,My voice has long been still.The darkness lies upon us like a frost;It creeps with a cold madness over the land:I will awake Thy children who are lostIf Thou wilt flame my torch at Thy warm hand.Is it too late? Or can the fire be seen -So heavy is the blindness on men's eyes?The stars are white, the woods are billowing green,Blue is the sea, and blue the unfading skies,Yet beauty like an ungathered harvest' lies.Light Thou my torch: I feel Thee bending nearAs the calm Christmas carols haunt the air.The light.within my hands grows suddenly clear:Lord, Thou hast heard my prayer.I give Thee thanks: now to the world I goFlaming with beauty, fathered by Thy hand.I go through the wild wood, down the cool sand;I speak with footsteps on the unspoken snow.The torch burns high and clear,And nomad winds on gypsy bugles blow,

168

And over the dying echo I can h arThe tramp of feet behind m : th y h c mA host with hunger f th d wn f r li ht,With thirst of th d rk d f r Ap il rain.They fashion w rd n li th tin w r dumThey soon will p k gin.Lord, keep my t rch fl m with Ii ht untilI lead th e pi! rim t th t r mi cl I nd,Which lies b y nd th h f m ny hill -A haven f I tu I v nd inging s nd,Where all th w rid' I t rhyme in one wind blows,And all d d un w k n in one rose.And alII t m nlight hall be gathered upInto one lend r lily's stainless cup.There, with awakened eyes, shall we beholdBeauty, with all her drapery fallen away;And every dawn will come with purer gold,And whit r stars will wash the night away;And we hall breathe of air that, white and cool,Lies on ur breasts like lilies on a pool.And th r, n slopes of eons yet to be,With b auty shall we keep eternal tryst,Until, in s me triumphant hour, we seeThat crowning bloom of loveliness - the Christ.

Christma Day, 1934.

169

c!J([y(?ountry

"WE want you not when you blossom with song.We want you not when your lyre is strong

But we have a strange insatiable lustFor a poet's bones, for a dead bard's dust.

"You ask for bread and a jug of wineFor singing songs of this land of thine.

But you'll get no wine and you'll get no bread;Though we'll fight like demons, when you are

dead,To keep your ashes," my country said.

NOTE: Canada made no gesture (save a private one sponsoredby Peter McArthur) to keep Bliss Carman in Canada, but she madeone of the most disgusting pleas in history to retain his ashes.

The author, feeling the injustice of this same forced exile, wrotethis poem after visiting that part of Connecticut which, for so manyyears, gave to our fine poet those necessities of life which weredenied him by his own country.-W. M.

170

p.

Th d ors are latched;Th wind w ar barred;

ut the air floods inFr m the wind'worn yard.

It creeps through chinksAnd curls at your feet.It drinks up the room's cheerAnd laps up the heat.

An old man muttersThis stone'quiet mate:" meone's at the window;Someone's at the gate."

The casements shiverAs if spirits went by ­Spirits with footstepsLike wind on the rye.

171

GJire..'PlaCe.,;

Old men and womenHear mute things:They hear deep silenceLike a voice that sings.

They hear wild stormsOn glassy seas;They feel warm bloodIn fingers that freeze.

If someone rapped wildlyOn this window or doorHe'd get no answerSave the wind's hushed roar.

But the folk that comeWithout flesh or wordAre seen here clearly,And are clearly heard.

The old man muttersTo his stone-quiet mate:"Seven is a dark hour;It's late, very late.

It's late, very lateCome mother," HAye, aye,I'll come when flamesOn the black hearth die."

172

But it isn't the fl mThat bid h r wit:It's someone at th wind w,Someone at th gat:

173

crDhe Living'Word

N aT because He was a Jew,And of David's line,

But because He is true,And because He is fine;

Not because He is God,In an ordered part,

But because He is goodIs He Lord of my heart.

Old histories may err,But To-day does not lie,

For, resplendent and fair,My Lord wanders by.

In your hand and mineHis Word lives again.

His face is ashineIn the beauty of rain.

174 175